"You have two choices," Ryojin snarled, his voice low but sharp like the crack of a whip. His grip on the young orphan's collar was merciless, pulling the boy up until their gazes locked. The child's eyes were wide with terror, his hands shaking, his body trembling as though it might crumble into dust at the slightest touch.
"Die like a dog," Ryojin's words were a venomous hiss. "Or die with your teeth in their throat."
The boy's breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of the decision suffocating him. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but beneath the fear was something else—something that made his hands clench. His fear hadn't crippled him yet. His resolve, though fragile, was still there.
Ryojin's smile twisted into something cruel as he slapped the boy hard on the back, sending him stumbling forward into the chaos. "Then fight."
The boy didn't look back. His body moved of its own accord, every step a desperate scramble for survival. But for the briefest moment, he fought with a ferocity that had been instilled in him by the very monster who had sent him into this hellscape.
And die he did—bravely, desperately.
As Ryojin watched the boy fall, a burst of flames consumed his body, turning it to ash, he didn't flinch. This was the price of war.
There was no room for pity here—no room for weakness. He had given them the will to live, however briefly, and that was enough.
The orphans, their numbers thinning by the second, had learned what Ryojin already knew—the only way to survive was to fight like a beast.
"Do it like I showed you," Ryojin growled, stepping over the charred body of another fallen orphan, his chains snapping like whips through the air, catching a Chunin by the throat and pulling him into a storm of fire.
Their strikes were wild, erratic—yet their eyes, wide with terror, burned with a singular, primal need: to keep fighting, even as their numbers thinned and the ground became slick with the blood of the fallen.
And then, as if the world itself had taken a breath, the temperature dropped. A cold wind swept across the battlefield, sharp and merciless, quenching the fires that had once roared with untamed fury. The heat of battle dissipated, leaving a suffocating stillness in its wake. The screams of the dying faded, consumed by the silence that descended.
Time seemed to stretch, to bend, as if the universe itself had paused.
Amatsu.
He emerged from the shadows, his presence more felt than seen—a specter made real. His dark eyes scanned the battlefield, calculating, cold, and unnervingly calm. His movements were deliberate, each step taken with an almost predatory grace, as if the very air around him bent to his will. There was no need for words. He did not seek attention. He simply was, and the world seemed to make room for him, as if it knew that its laws no longer applied to this man.
The Amegakure ninjas faltered.
Their gazes snapped toward him, the briefest flicker of uncertainty in their eyes. It wasn't fear. It wasn't even recognition. It was the sudden, primal awareness that something had shifted. This man, standing in the middle of the storm they had been creating, was not like the others. There was no frenzy, no desperation in his posture. Only cold, calculated purpose.
And then, beside him, stood Higanbana.
She was an ethereal vision amidst the carnage, delicate yet untouched by the filth of war. Her hair, impossibly long and flowing like strands of midnight, shimmered with faint red highlights, catching the dying light like embers in the dark. Against the sea of blood and ruin, her pale skin seemed almost luminous, untouched by the brutality that surrounded her.
Her crimson eyes held no rage, no malice—only a quiet, unfathomable depth, like the petals of a flower blooming in the dead of winter. She did not tremble, did not recoil, standing in perfect stillness. Her presence was haunting, an innocent specter adrift in a world that had long since lost its purity.
She was beauty where there should be none. She was innocence where none could survive. And in that moment, she was the most terrifying thing of all.
Amatsu's voice sliced through the silence like a blade through flesh.
"Kill and survive . That is the only goal. Anything else is irrelevant."
His words were not a command. They were a statement of fact, an undeniable truth in a world that had long forgotten the concept of mercy. As soon as the words left his lips, he moved—swift, lethal, a blur of motion that left no room for hesitation or error.
A Jonin, a seasoned veteran of countless battles, surged toward him, drawn by the scent of blood and the promise of victory. His blade gleamed in the dim light, his intent clear—he would cut this man down, this cold, indifferent killer who had dared to step onto this battlefield.
But Amatsu was already gone.
In a flash, he was behind the Jonin, his movements a seamless blend of brutality and grace.
The Jonin barely had time to register the shift before Amatsu's blade was buried deep in his throat. The weapon slid through flesh with unnerving precision, slicing through muscle and bone as though it was cutting through air.
Blood erupted in a spray of crimson, the thick, metallic scent lingering in the air. The Jonin's body collapsed without a sound, his life extinguished as effortlessly as snuffing out a candle. In the space of a heartbeat, he had ceased to exist.
Amatsu did not look at him. He did not pause. His eyes were already moving, scanning the battlefield for the next target, his body already in motion.
Cold. Ruthless. Quick.
Ryojin watched this unfolding spectacle from the chaos around him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the brutal elegance of Amatsu's movements. There was something about the way the man moved—so precise, so calculated.
Ryojin had always thrived on destruction. His chains were whips of fire and rage, tearing through the air in wild arcs, cutting down anyone unfortunate enough to stand in his path.
But Amatsu—Amatsu He was the storm, but it was a storm of ice and stone, crushing everything in its path without mercy.
Ryojin's chains lashed out once more, wrapping around a Jonin's neck and pulling him into the inferno of flames that followed. His body burned, screaming as the fire consumed him. Yet, even as Ryojin reveled in the chaos, he felt it—a flicker of something deep within. A gnawing recognition.
Both of them driven by a singular obsession—
survival. Power.
Yet, where Ryojin was a force of nature, wild and untamable, Amatsu was a force of precision—a cold, calculating storm that did not waste a single motion. There was no madness in his eyes, no fury. Just focus. Just purpose.
Ryojin sneered, his golden eyes flashing with contempt.
He would prove it.
Amatsu was strong—Ryojin would not deny that.
Amatsu was ahead. Always ahead. Slipping through the storm like it couldn't touch him. Ryojin gritted his teeth.
With a snarl, he surged forward, the battlefield burning in his wake.
But Amatsu did not waste time.
He moved like a phantom, a quiet executioner.
Ryojin bared his teeth.
That bastard wasn't even looking at him.
I'm Ryojin.
The Strongest!
The battle had reached its peak.
Only a handful of the orphans remained, their numbers dwindling by the second.
They were weapons.
Ryojin, his body slick with sweat and blood, moved through the carnage with a primal hunger. His golden eyes gleamed with something feral—he was alive. Alive in a way that made the very earth tremble beneath him. He had brought them this far. Now, he would finish it.
"Get to the gate! MOVE!" Ryojin's voice thundered across the battlefield, a roaring command that rang in the ears of every orphan still standing. He surged forward, his chains whirling in deadly arcs, clearing the path ahead.
The orphans, bloodied and battered, charged with him. They were moving as one now, no longer scattered and aimless. They threw everything they had left—explosive tags, kunai, their own bodies—into the fray.
But there were too many Amegakure ninjas. The reinforcements poured in, fresh and deadly, their movements coordinated with cold precision. The orphans fought with reckless abandon, knowing they had already lost. They were sacrificing themselves for one last push—the gate, the only hope they had left. But hope had never been a real ally in this world.
They fought. Not for hope. Not for victory. But for survival.
Amatsu stood amidst the slaughter, his kunai blade slick with blood, his dark eyes void of hesitation. He exhaled slowly, his breath steady despite the chaos. The battlefield was no different from any other lesson—those who hesitated, those who clung to weakness, died.
A flicker of movement. The glint of a kunai. The enemy thought they saw an opening.
Foolish.
Body Flicker.
Amatsu vanished.
A whisper of wind. A blur of motion. Then, steel met flesh.
The enemy's throat split open in a single, effortless stroke. A strangled gurgle, a useless grasp at the gaping wound. Amatsu was already gone.
He reappeared behind another, his blade driving through their spine, severing their life before the pain could even register. Another flicker. Another kill.
No wasted movement. No unnecessary exertion. Where Ryojin tore through enemies with raw force and chaos, Amatsu erased them. A specter of death, unseen, untouchable.
Blood sprayed, painting the battlefield in silent testament to his craft. He moved like a ghost, a shadow of inevitability.
Beside him, Higanbana danced.
Her long black hair swayed with each movement, her crimson eyes glowing eerily in the smoke-filled battlefield. She moved with soft, deliberate steps, her hands weaving patterns in the air.
From her palms, flowers bloomed—Higanbana, red spider lilies formed from pure chakra. The deadly blossoms spun like shuriken, gliding soundlessly through the air.
The moment they struck—
The enemy convulsed. Their blood drained, skin shriveling, eyes wide in silent horror. The crimson liquid was drawn into the petals, devoured by the hungry chakra within. A quiet, beautiful death.
One by one, they fell.
Ryojin watched, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat and blood. He had fought, he had bled, he had burned. Yet despite everything, despite the bodies at his feet, despite the fire roaring in his veins—
He was being left behind.
Amatsu moved with perfect efficiency. Higanbana with quiet lethality.
And him?
He fought like a beast, a wild, unchained force of destruction. And yet—
It wasn't enough.
His chains lashed out, carving through another enemy, his flames consuming the body in a wave of searing heat. He grinned, baring his teeth like an animal, but beneath it—beneath the thrill, the hunger—was something else.
Something close to desperation.
Amatsu didn't spare him a glance.
A sudden.
From the distance, a voice cold and merciless rang through the battlefield.
"They're escaping! Do not let them escape or alive!"
Joji's voice cut through the battlefield like a blade. It was not a command. It was a verdict.
The Amegakure jonin moved in perfect synchronization. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. The chaos of battle had been snatched away in an instant, replaced by something worse—control.
A deep rumble shook the air. The sky darkened.
Then—rain.
Each raindrop carried weight, slowing movement, dragging against their limbs as if the heavens themselves had turned against them. The battlefield turned slick, mud swallowing bodies, the scent of blood thick in the damp air.
Amatsu felt it immediately—the subtle pull, the shifting resistance. They were being drowned.
Joji's eyes gleamed with cold intelligence. "Flood them."
The jonin wove their hand signs.
The rain intensified. Water surged unnaturally beneath their feet, churning, rising—a flood born of chakra. It swallowed corpses, dissolved bodies into crimson waves, and crashed toward them with crushing force.
Higanbana leapt back, her crimson eyes narrowing. She twisted her hands, and chakra bloomed.
Higanbana Flower Shuriken.
The blood-red flowers spun through the rain, cutting through the rising flood. The moment they struck an enemy—drain.
Their bodies shriveled. Blood pulled unnaturally from their skin, flowing into the petals like ink spilled into water.
But the Amegakure jonin did not falter.
A single hand seal—Suiryū Zangeki (Water Dragon Severance).
A water slashed through the storm, razor-sharp, faster than steel.
Higanbana twisted, narrowly avoiding the strike, but the edge of the attack nicked her shoulder—a cut that shouldn't have bled, but did.
She gasped.
Ryojin snarled, his golden eyes burning. His chains snapped forward, carving through the storm, but the rain worked against him.
His fire sputtered, weakened.
One of the jonin smirked beneath his mask. "Fire techniques? Fighting us?"
A mistake.
Ryojin's snarl deepened. His flames should have been suppressed, but his chakra surged violently, burning hotter, brighter.
The chains glowed—golden fire that refused to be drowned.
They lashed out, cutting through the storm, wrapping around an enemy's throat. The fire didn't burn. It consumed.
The jonin screamed. His body blackened, his flesh eaten by the unnatural heat, until nothing remained but ash.
Ryojin spat on the ground, grinning. "You bastards are making this fun."
But Joji was already moving.
A blur of speed. A shadow amidst the rain.
Joji was behind them.
Amatsu's senses sharpened. A flicker of danger—too late.
A palm thrust forward.
Silent.
No sound. No warning.
A blade of pure chakra—invisible, untouchable, absolute.
Amatsu's body moved on instinct.
Body Flicker.
He vanished.
The kunai sliced where his heart had been a breath ago, cutting only air.
But Joji had already adjusted, his hands forming another seal. A counter for Body Flicker.
The air distorted. Amatsu felt the drag—
A trap.
Joji's voice was calm. "Not fast enough."
From the rain itself, needles formed. Hundreds. Thousands.
A Rain Execution.
They fell like a storm of spears, each droplet a sharpened death.
Amatsu didn't blink. He moved.
A blade of blood and steel. A flicker of motion. A path through death.
He cut, he wove, he stepped—the needles passed by, missing by inches, by fractions, by inevitability.
And then—
He was behind Joji.
A single strike.
Steel met flesh.
Joji's shadow flickered.
Not real. A Water Clone.
The real Joji stood meters away, unreadable, unimpressed. Testing him. Measuring.
Amatsu exhaled slowly. The world narrowed. The rain slowed.
This battle was not over.
This battle had only just begun.